No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery)

by Shelly Fredman

  Then I began thinking about Johnny stumbling onto a police investigation. Some people have all the luck. I’ve waited my entire life to sink my teeth into something like this, while John just snaps some pictures in the wrong place at the wrong time and suddenly he’s swapping doughnut recipes with Philadelphia’s Finest. It is so not fair.

  Then, I thought John could introduce me to the cop in charge of the murder investigation, and we could work shoulder to shoulder to solve the crime (me and the cop, not me and Johnny) and we’d fall in love (again, me and the cop, not me and Johnny) and get married, and we’d become this dynamite investigative team, a sort of Nick and Nora for the new millennium, and…Okay, get a grip. We haven’t even been introduced yet.

  I glanced at the clock. Eleven a.m. which would make it eight o’clock in L.A. The morning news would be in high gear by now. My segments are generally pre-taped, but I do get to go on the occasional shoot. Real high profile stuff too, like The Burbank High School Spelling Bee Championships, or a freak snowstorm in Crenshaw. I honestly don’t know what they’d do without me to cover these world-changing events. Feeling pretty high on myself, I called my boss to see how they were faring without me. One of the P.A.’s, a nineteen year old UCLA student name Jeannie, answered the phone.

  “Hey, Jeannie, it’s Brandy.”

  “Oh hi, Brandy. We miss you.” Sweet kid.

  “Thanks. Is Gail in?”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got our hands full right now.”

  “Oh? What’s up?”

  “A big fire broke out in an apartment building, down town, and according to our sources it may be the work of a serial arsonist.”

  “No kidding!” I said, salivating at the assignment. “So, is Brian out covering it, or is he still home, flossing his teeth?” I chuckled good naturedly to let Jeannie know I was just joshing old Brian.

  “Actually, Brian’s home with the flu and Mark’s covering a murder-suicide in Echo Park. Connie’s investigating the noxious fumes on Fairfax, so that just leaves me!”

  “You!”

  “Yeah,” she gushed. “Can you believe it? I’m going out on an honest-to goodness assignment—something important, and life changing. I just can’t believe my incredible luck.” She stole my assignment, the Bitch!

  “Oh, listen, Brandy, I’ve got to run. I’ll tell Gail you called.”

  “You do that, Jeannie. Oh, and Jeannie” —

  “Yes?”

  “Break a leg.”

  “Thanks, Brandy!”

  I slammed down the phone, furious. Three years! I’ve worked my ass off for these people for three years! Squeezing into a phone booth with sixteen sorority sisters for a segment on “Campus Antics,” walking eight, yapping mutts at a time to bring our audience the “true L.A. dog walking experience,” eating sushi on Sunset, masquerading as a Mariachi on Cinco de Mayo, and I’ve done it all without complaint. But this time they’ve gone too far!

  Somehow, my righteous indignation failed to recognize the fact that I was three thousand miles away when the arsonist decided to get match-happy. It’s not that I begrudged Jeannie her big break, (okay, I did, but I didn’t want to begrudge her, so that should count for something.) It’s just that I wanted to make a difference in the world. I knew I was capable of much more than the fluff pieces I was doing, and I wanted a chance to prove it. It was time to take stock of my life, but I wasn’t sure how to go about it. Finally, I reached into my bag and extracted the last Hershey’s Kiss. When in doubt, eat more chocolate.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sam’s Italian Deli makes great hoagies. They’re crammed with every kind of Italian cold cut imaginable, plus provolone, Swiss, tomatoes, onions, shredded lettuce, oregano and generously doused with olive oil. There are lots of restaurants sprinkled around the L.A. area touting “authentic Philly hoagies,” but no self-respecting native Philadelphian would be caught dead eating one of those glorified subs.

  If you asked a Philadelphian what the difference is, they probably couldn’t tell you. Some would say it’s the rolls. Others might argue over cuts of meat. A few may chalk up the superiority of a hoagie made in Philly to old-fashioned city pride, but on one thing they would all agree; you can’t take the hoagie out of Philly. And Sam’s hoagies are among the best.

  I’ve known Sam all my life. I went to elementary school with his kids, and his delicatessen’s been a neighborhood fixture for a long as I can remember. In Philadelphia, especially in the older neighborhoods lots of “Mom and Pop” stores are located on residential streets. Sam’s deli is located on the corner of 9th and Christian. He and his wife live in the apartment above, where they’d raised five kids in very tight quarters.

  I walked the eight blocks to his store. As I entered, the most wonderful aroma besieged me; garlic, fresh bread, Romano cheese. Sam was behind the counter, sneaking a cigar. He cast a furtive glance around when he heard the chimes go off in the door, signaling a customer. Then his eyes settled on me, and he did a double take as recognition set in.

  “Brandy! How ya doin’, sweetheart?”

  “I’m fine, Sam. How are you?”

  “Can’t complain, doll. Who’d listen?” He snorted congenially and I laughed along with him. We’d been having the same conversation since I was a little girl.

  “So, your mother tells me you’re a big television star out in Los Angeles.”

  My mother exaggerates. “Pretty big.”

  “Do you know Mannix?”

  “Uh, no. Unfortunately, he’s dead.”

  Sam shrugged. Disappointment loomed in the air.

  “But I know Regis Philbin.” (Actually, I don’t technically know him. I sat next to him in a restaurant once.)

  Sam brightened considerably, my t.v. star status remaining intact. “So, how long are you in town for?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Oh yeah, I heard you were coming in for the DiAngelo kid’s wedding.”

  In Philly, we’re all “kids.” You could be fifty years old, with grandchildren, but if you’re younger than the person who’s talking about you, you’re a “kid.”

  “How’s Mrs. Giancola?” Sam is Sam. His wife, Dolores, is Mrs. Giancola.

  “She’s fine. Went back to school after Gracie graduated high school. She’s getting her degree in dental hygiene.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said, but my mind was really on the deli case.

  Sam stubbed out his cigar and rubbed his hands together. “So, the usual?” Four years and he still remembered.

  While Sam worked his magic inside the store, I scooted around back to say hello to his son, Vincent. Vince and I were an “item” when we were eight. That is, until he tried to French kiss me and I bit him. Somehow, we’d managed to overcome our romantic past and remain friends.

  I found him in back of his parents’ house, his legs sticking out from under a nineteen sixty-three Alpha Romeo. A Z-28 was parked next to it, in various stages of dismemberment. I grew up in a neighborhood of gear-heads. If the guys weren’t working on cars, they were talking about them, or racing them, or occasionally, stealing them, as in the case of Ronnie Torino, an otherwise upstanding citizen of our block.

  “Yo, Vincent,” I called, lapsing into the vernacular. “What does a girl need to do to get a hug around here?”

  Vince scooted out from under the car and blinked into the sunlight. “Hey! I heard you were back in town.” The omnipotent neighborhood grapevine strikes again. He wrapped his grease-stained arms around me for a warm hug.

  “Sorry,” he said, wiping a smudge off my cheek. Then, he stood back and eyed me appreciatively. “Wow!” He wolf-whistled. “You look great.”

  “Thanks,” I blushed. As a kid I carried around a fair amount of extra poundage. It was sort of a badge of honor with me. At family dinners, my grandmother would comment on Paul’s finicky eating habits. “Now Brandy, she’s the good eater. She’ll eat anything you put in front of her. Won’t you, dear?” Then I’d beam like an idiot and stuff half a pot
roast down my throat, just to ensure a place in Grandma’s “Good Eater Hall of Fame.” Fat Aunt Doris was a “good eater” too. In fact, she was such a good eater she died of heart failure at forty-six.

  I left Philly with “baby fat” still clinging to my post-pubescent hips. But four years in body-conscious L.A., three of them in the public eye, gave me the impetus I needed to shed the extra pounds. I am by no means skinny, but I no longer resemble a Cabbage Patch Kid on steroids, either.

  “Still working for the D.A.’s office, Vin?” Vince is an assistant district attorney.

  “Yeah, and it’s been nuts, lately.”

  “How come?”

  “Ah, some gay guy got whacked about a week and a half ago. There aren’t any leads, and the asshole cop who was supposed to be in charge of the investigation decided to take a vacation the day after this guy turns up D.O.A.”

  My heart lurched. “Bobby?”

  “You got it.” Vince grinned. “He’s back now, and he’s catching a rash of shit for his little impromptu disappearing act.” Vince and Bobby are long-time friends, but there’s always been a rivalry between them. Physically, Vince takes after his dad, husky build, wide, flat nose, and a receding chin that disappears into his neck, while Bobby is nothing short of gorgeous. He’s got the best of his Irish- Italian ancestry: smoky blue eyes, dark wavy hair, and the lean, muscular body of a boxer. As a teenager it was hard for Vince to watch girls fall at Bobby’s feet. So whenever Bobby screwed up, (which was often, in those days) Vince really made the most of it.

  As much as I would have liked to hear more about Bobby, something else Vince had said caught my attention even more.

  “You said there are no leads?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Oh, but”—I was thinking about Johnny’s pictures and the detective’s admonitions not to tell anyone. “Nothing. It must be frustrating, that’s all.”

  I ate my sandwich on the walk home, my conversation with Vince turning over in my mind. Why would Vince say there weren’t any leads in this murder investigation? What about John’s photographs? And why would Bobby just take off like that? As a kid, he was rebellious, angry, even a little dangerous at times, but never irresponsible. What could have been so pressing that he’d up and leave at such a vital time?

  It occurred to me that I was spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about an ex-boyfriend who had clearly moved on in his life. The man had a wife and baby, for God’s sake, while I had a goldfish. At least I did have a goldfish. Turns out that bits of raw hamburger meat are a real treat for dogs, but not so much for goldfish.

  Just as I reached the front door and turned the key in the lock, the phone started ringing. Wiping the grease from my sandwich onto my jeans, I picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Did you have a nice nap?” John inquired. At least I thought it was John. The connection was lousy.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I walked down to Sam’s for a hoagie.”

  “Meat or cheese?” I hesitated a moment too long. “You had salami, didn’t you?” he accused. Recently, John has become a vegetarian and a pain in the ass along with it.

  “Well, I didn’t enjoy it, so it doesn’t count.”

  “Liar.”

  “Hey, listen,” I said, changing the subject, “I had an interesting conversation with Vince Giancola today.”

  “Why would you speak to him? Why? Why?”

  “Okay. Not your favorite person.”

  “He’s a Neanderthal! Or have you forgotten about the time he turned me upside down and shoved me in the trash-can!”

  “We were ten. People change, and besides, he said he was sorry. Anyway, let me tell you what he said.”

  John cut me off, abruptly. “Tell me later. I’m on my way downtown. I’ve gotta get Fran’s wedding gift and I wanted to know if you want to come along.” The connection began to crackle, furiously.

  “I want to come!” I shouted.

  “Damn crappy phone. Make that a wedding gift and a new cell phone.”

  Franny and Eddie were registered at a half-dozen stores in Center City, and John was determined to schlep me to every blessed one of them.

  “How will we know when we see the perfect gift if we have nothing to compare it with?”

  “They’re all the perfect gift,” I reasoned, “or else she wouldn’t have put them on her bridal registry. We could have purchased any one of six thousand items by now, all hand picked by Franny.”

  “Jeez, if I had wanted to go shopping with a guy I would’ve asked Paul to come along.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, barely containing my urge to knock him into tomorrow.

  Johnny rolled his eyes so far they almost fell out the back of his head. “I mean it’s very butch not to enjoy shopping. Get in touch with your feminine side, sunshine. You’ll be a much better woman for it.”

  This time I didn’t even try to fight the urge. I whacked John a good one.

  “Ow. I think you broke my arm.”

  “I did not. Quit being such a baby.” I was heading on thirty-two hours without sleep and my patience was wearing thin.

  “Okay,” John relented. “If I buy you a Starbucks will you go to one more store?”

  “Coffee and those little chocolate grahams?”

  John nodded. “Deal.”

  We strolled through Rittenhouse Square, counting the number of people talking on their cell phones. One very loud woman wearing too-tight overalls was having a fight with her boyfriend. She kept shouting, “You asshole, you asshole. I should have thrown your sorry ass out a long time ago.” A silver haired society matron was making plans to meet her lawyer for lunch. Young and old, rich and poor co-mingled in the October sunshine. I drank it all in, happy to be back. The leaves had turned a magnificent array of autumn colors, yet the air was still warm.

  “Indian Summer,” said John.

  “In L.A. we call it Native American Summer.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “No, I swear. Some Chumash filed a law suit to have the phrase legally changed.”

  “You are so shittin’ me.”

  I laughed and John threw a companionable arm around me.

  “I really miss hanging out with you.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So, now can I tell you about my conversation with Vince?”

  “If you must.” We were seated at a window table in the Barnes & Noble café, where they “proudly serve Starbucks coffee.” I knew I’d regret having caffeine this late in the afternoon, but I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open.

  “Okay,” I said, settling in. “So I ask Vince how’s work and he says things are nuts because of this murder case that’s going on.”

  Konner Novack?” John asked, suddenly interested.

  I nodded.

  “Wow. So what else did he say about it?”

  “Well, this is where it gets weird. He said that Bobby was supposed to be in charge of the investigation, but he all of a sudden leaves town, and Vince also says there aren’t any clues in the case. I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist of it.”

  “No clues? I hand that cop eight by ten color glossies of the probable killer and they say there are no clues?”

  “Weird, huh?” We sat there for a moment; John sipping his latte, me with a “red-eye” clenched firming in my hand.

  “Maybe the pictures just didn’t pan out,” John concluded.

  “In that case, you should ask for them back. Your friend Daniel will want them.”

  “It’s no big deal,” John shrugged. “I’ve got copies.”

  “But didn’t you tell the detective you didn’t have any copies?”

  John looked at me like I’d grown another head. “Don’t you remember how long it took to get your bike back after it was stolen? It sat in the evidence room for three months. You think there’s any way I’d hand over all the copies? I put them on my I-Mac. The password is ‘bras
siere,’” he added, giggling.

  I would have told John to grow up, but that word makes me giggle too.

  “So, what do you think’s up with Bobby?”

  “Haven’t got a clue. But you could ask him. He’ll be at Paul’s club, tomorrow night, for the party.” This last part was said very quietly, I suspect to soften the impact of his words. I felt my stomach tighten at the mention of Bobby being there.

  “Bobby’s coming?” I squeaked. Of course he’d be there. Bobby has been a part of the gang for as long as he’s known me.

  “Franny had to invite him. Bobby’s the one who introduced her to Eddie in the first place.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, with a bravery I didn’t feel. “He’ll be at the wedding. I may as well get it over with. Actually, I’m looking forward to seeing him.”

  John grinned. “You are so full of shit.”

  I shrugged. “Flatterer.”

  We settled on a pair of Waterford “toasting goblets,” which weren’t even on the registry lists. As soon as Johnny saw them he declared them “the perfect gift,” instantly negating three hours of hard shopping labor.

  We listened to Motown all the way home, except for a brief interlude with Springsteen. We rolled the windows all the way down, and I hung my head out the window, shouting out the lyrics to Born in the USA and getting them mostly wrong.

  John parked in front of my parents’ house and turned off the engine.

  “I had fun today.”

  “Me too. Just like old times.”

  “So what are your plans for tonight?”

  “Frankie and Carla invited me over, and Paul asked if I wanted to catch a movie, but to be honest, I think I just want to stay home. I need to.”